


Common Sense Failed Again

by t0bemadeofglass



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bonding, F/M, Feels, Oral, Past Abuse, Porn With Plot, Prompt Fic, Scars, Trust, Trust Issues, smut thrown in for good measure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t0bemadeofglass/pseuds/t0bemadeofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Natasha kept an eye on the fallen prince because, well, wasn’t she just the same once?  Damaged, broken, untrusting and unwilling to accept their affection or their attention?  Hadn’t she put Barton through the ringer as he tried to convince her that SHIELD was what was best for him?  </p><p>Hadn’t she been sure that any second, any moment, the pain would start again and she would be crippled and weakened and back to where she started?"</p><p>In which Natasha teaches Loki how to trust her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common Sense Failed Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wolves_and_girls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolves_and_girls/gifts).



> Prompted by RomanovasLedger on Tumblr, who had a beautiful idea that I ran with. As always. Hope you like it dear!

Like all things he did it was subtle; the quick pull away from any sort of unnecessary physical contact, the way he shifted away whenever Thor looked to get grabby or affectionate in any way, how he ducked out of the room when Steve went on about how good of a team they were, which almost always ended in a group hug.  Natasha could understand a few times, a few instances where he pulled away because the physical contact wasn’t exactly the most comfortable thing.  After all, he had tried to kill them all and they’d ended up defeating him, but she’d have thought, since he’d been brought onto earth for rehabilitation, that he might’ve given it a shot at least.  But no, he retreated, and Natasha observed.  She kept an eye on the fallen prince because, well, wasn’t she just the same once?  Damaged, broken, untrusting and unwilling to accept their affection or their attention?  Hadn’t she put Barton through the ringer as he tried to convince her that SHIELD was what was best for him?  

Hadn’t she been sure that any second, any moment, the pain would start again and she would be crippled and weakened and back to where she started?  

 

“Loki,” she called out to his retreating figure one evening.  The others had disappeared into Stark’s entertainment room, determined to gorge themselves on popcorn and pizza and soda till they passed out like high school children, and Nat had seized her opportunity by the horns.  

So to speak, of course.  

He turned slowly to look at her, expression blank as he waited, legs parted and hands clenched behind his back, until she came closer.  “Agent Romanov.  What can I help you with?”

“I want you to meet me in my room in an hour.  Think you can do that?”  

His eyebrows about shot off his face before being pulled back so he could chuckle at her, his eyes asking what sort of a prank it was she intended on playing.  One eyebrow of her own rose, waiting for him to calm down and stare at her.  

“Why, Agent Romanov have you grown to pine for me?  Have you decided you can no longer keep yourself from my charms?”  He asked, voice taking on a slower lilt, stepping around her in evenly paced circles.  Cautious ones.  How often had she found herself falling into the same trap of favoring caution over trust?  

“I think if you come to my room you’ll find out,” she said, voice soft, taking a chance to brush past him, her hand skimming over his shoulder, and though the touch was light it was enough to make him seize up beneath her, his jaw setting so hard she could practically hear it crack.  Well then, now that her suspicions were confirmed it was time to do something about it.  He obviously wasn’t going to get any better on his own; time for her to take it into her own hands.

 

The room was as non-threatening as she could make it.  All her weapons had been stashed away, the lights were bright enough that he could see without having to worry about the shadows (because didn’t she know better than most exactly what they could hide?), and she’d dressed herself in a standard SHIELD tank top and pair of shorts.  Nothing too aggressive, nothing screaming at him that she was overtly sexual to put him on the defensive, or else to confuse her intentions.  This was just to help him, to get him to trust her and by extension the team.  

Right?  

The curl and tightness of her stomach, the difficulty of air filling her lungs, told her she was only fooling herself.  She pushed it down.  This was about him, not her.  Her feelings could wait (what was a few more hours, anyway?)  

The knock came on her door at exactly the right time.  With soft, efficient steps Natasha moved to the door and opened it wide enough that Loki could step through without having to touch her.  Once more his hands were held behind his back, his eyes doing the quickest of searches around the room she’d seen.  She was impressed.  He looked back at her, the usual smirk on his face, the one that told her he was ready for the trick.  She didn’t offer one.  

“You really have fallen for me, haven’t you Agent Romanov?” He asked, sidling over to the bed to look at the freshly made bedspread, the way that everything had been arranged so as not to throw him off or put him on edge. That wouldn’t work well for anyone.  

She made sure her steps were loud enough as she followed him.  She’d taken him by surprise once, and doing it again would serve no purpose to her.  “I think you need my help, but you don’t want to admit it.”

“I don’t--.”

“Loki,” her voice was soft but strong enough to shut him up, make him turn.  Confusion bled into his eyes and as she stepped closer she watched him retreat further into himself.  “Loki don’t do this.  Stop pulling away.”  Her words were soft and pleading, asking a favor.  Asking permission.  He looked down at her and swallowed audibly.  Beneath the anxiety, the distrust, the sarcasm, she could see fear.  Real.  Tangible.  She could reach into his mind and pluck it out if she tried hard enough, but that wasn’t what interested her.  Just behind it was the shimmer of hope, the basest of desires.  

She clung to that.  With easy, slow moving hands she reached back to his own and pulled them forward so they could lay at his side.  No more fear of touching things.  Of touching others.  Again he swallowed audibly but she made as though she hadn’t heard it.  Always he insisted on wearing his damn ridiculous coat and now she pushed it slowly off his shoulders, slipping his arms through it with even movements and steady fingers until it slid onto the ground.  All it took was the snap of his fingers and it had arranged itself on the back of a chair, but he made no move of indication he would take anything else off.  She didn’t want him to.  

He made his first complaint when she started with the buttons on his shirt, hissing that she was ridiculous and pathetic for pawing at him in such a way.  Once more all it took was the single quirk of her eyebrow and he silenced himself.  She made slow work of it, making sure to categorize the way he hid the tremors running through his body, watching as his expression flickered in front of her again and again, as temperamental as the storms his brother summoned.  Still he made no move to stop her, or even consider rebuking her.  Any comment he might’ve had, it seemed was drowned out by his unwavering desire to see where this would lead, and with each layer of his shed, the button up having fallen to the floor before being hung up like the other, she could see the hope grow stronger, intermingling with the fear head on, now.  She focused on keeping her own breathing even.  It wouldn’t do to show fear of her own.  She was a fixed point, the one with the plan for once.  She was the master of this situation, in control, and helping him battle the same demons that plagued her for decades.  

Plagued her still if she closed her eyes tight enough and counted to five.  What was it he had said about those horrors never going away?  And why did her chest burn to think that he knew exactly what she felt about them?  

When her fingers danced with the hem of his undershirt he stopped her, his palm fisting around her hand for the first time since he’d moved there.  Since ever.  She’d never felt his skin before and was pleasantly surprised to find it cooler to the touch than many other’s.  Did her own touch burn him?  He didn’t act as though it did.  

“Don’t.”  He murmured.  

She held his gaze, held him accountable.  There could be no healing without both sides being willing to compromise, she supposed, and with heavy fingers she brought his hands to the hem of her tank top herself.  If she wanted him bared to her, then she would have to play along with it.  

The old sarcasm flared up in his eyes, the jokes already on the tip of his tongue, but she slayed them with the quickest shake of her head.  It wasn’t the time for them, not now.  Not like this.  He choked them down, Nat sure they left a taste of vinegar and piss in his mouth, but not caring.  

With patience she guided his fingers to the hem, let him tighten them around the seams before he slowly pulled the cloth up and over her head.  She raised her arms to give him easier access to undressing her and felt, rather than heard, the breath leave his body.  Scars, white and raised, skittered over nearly every visible inch of skin.  She couldn’t tell him how many times she’d fallen under the knife, the sword, the razor, the needle.  Her skin was a tapestry of those men who sought to oppress her, to belittle her, to break her down molecule by molecule until she was nothing but a memory.  She left her arms above her head, extending the scars around her navel, the one long one that slit up her stomach from a nasty fight in Taiwan, the curved lines on either side of her hips from a torture sequence in Kiev (she’d paid the bastard back in full), the dotted knife-point gouges made by a particularly sadistic slave-trader in Naples.  Each of them a story, a testament.  Proof.  Natasha Romanov, once Natalia Romanova, could never be undone.  Loki’s lips parted, forming a small ‘o’ as his fingers traced the fine lines, danced over the pain of years passed, his eyes forming questions about which knives were used, which secrets kept.  Why did she care enough to suffer through them?  More than that, his gaze revealed as he watched his hands dip down towards the top of her sweat pants, playing with a particularly nasty jagged one that ran up and down the seam of her hipbone, why was she showing him?  

With care she lowered her arms to his shoulders, stretching her fingers out over his cold skin to stroke the skin there, drawing circles with her thumbs before dipping them down back to his shirt.  He stilled, but this time she didn’t focus on the shirt.  That would come off of his own volition.  With apparent ease she undid the lacing of his trousers, the prince never having quite gotten into the habit of trading out jeans for his usual black leather pants, which wasn’t really something Nat minded.  In the back of her mind she recalled how fine it made his ass look.  

Her lips cracked a grin at that, and he tipped her chin up to see it in its full focus.  She wondered how long it had been since he’d seen a real smile shot his way.

Her best guess (which was damn good, thank you very much) was at least a couple years.  

“What?” He asked, voice a whisper, slightly hitched when she started sliding the cool leather down  past his hips.  He watched her lower herself to her haunches--never her knees, that brought back memories too unpleasant to think about at the moment--and she gave a casual one-shouldered shrug.  

“You have a really nice backside is all,” she murmured, watching scars of his own appear on his thighs.  Marks where welts had once been raised, welts that had likely burst and bloodied his thighs, welts caused from objects she doubted she wanted to think of.  Her lips pressed gently to one of the scars and felt him jolt in confusion beneath her touch.  She moved on from there, watched and felt his skin heat up and flush beneath her touch, watched his cock--already impressive--fill with blood and harden as she brought her lips closer to his groin.  Had she been on a mission she’d have been aggressive, would have taken him into her mouth and sucked till she thought her lips would fall out, would massage him into spilling into her mouth, hand, or on her face in favor of spilled secrets, infinitely more valuable than anything a man could give her.  

Except his trust, perhaps.  

Loki had only grown more unsure, muscles vibrating with the difficulty he faced at not pulling away from her, face drawn in a look of stoic disbelief while the tight line his lips created proved only that he wasn’t focusing on her but the memories that came with, that he was trusting what she could do, not focusing on what she wouldn’t.  The first kiss was at the base of his cock, followed by her hand fisting him slowly, massaging his cock in her hands until the first hiss of breath left his mouth, followed by a flurry of curses.  How long had it been, she wondered as his hips pumped into the motion as though of their own accord, since he’d been touched like this?  Did he even do it to himself anymore, or was he strictly keeping himself from it?  She swallowed the questions as she brought her lips up the curve of his dick and swiped her tongue out at the head of his cock.  He choked on a silent plea, hands fisting at his side.  With care, Nat’s extra hand took one of his hands and brought it to the back of her head, to give him something to hold on to.  See?  She trusted him, and as she enveloped his cock in her mouth, her tongue coming out to lap at the vein on the underside, she endeavored to show him just how much she did.  

Teasing wasn’t on the menu for that night, she reminded herself after having taken him completely in her mouth, movements slow as she bobbed up and down on his cock, grinning inwardly at how he started to relax, to unwind, and yet the knots of tension began in his hips and wound him up tighter and tighter with every glance of her tongue over the head, with every squeeze of his balls as one hand fondled them gently, proving to him that touch didn’t have to hurt.  It wouldn’t hurt.  Not so long as he trusted her.  After she thought he’d had his fill of being teased she pulled away.  Loki groaned, his head tipping forward to glance down at her with confusion as she stood up and slowly pushed him backwards towards the bed.  “Lay back,” she murmured, pleased to see him obeying so readily as he rustled the sheets with every scoot backwards, sitting back on his elbows and gazing up at her with an appraising look, as if he’d never really seen her before.  She doubted he’d ever thought of her like this, this slow and tender.  Once she’d thought of taking it quickly with him, a good hard fuck to get the sexual tension out of the way, to release the pent up aggression that stirred in her stomach every time he walked into a room.  But now?  As she watched his gaze turn hungry with every shimmy of her hips that brought her sweat pants down, watched him flick his tongue out to taste the bottom lip she very much wanted to take between her own teeth as she slid her panties over the swell of her ass and let them fall onto the floor?  Slow didn’t seem half bad.  

As before she took her time with him, placing her mouth back onto his cock to get him good and wet again, back arched so that Loki could reach out to brush his fingers along her spine, feel how fragile she was beneath his fingers.  Feel and do nothing.  He didn’t want to add himself to the tally marks already counted on her body, didn’t want to be another number in a long line of men and women who thought they could out-do her.  It wasn’t an enviable position, she supposed as she looked up at him through her lashes, letting go of his cock with a soft pop.  The noise made him gasp, but the heat of her core sliding down around him, enveloping him, made him shout.  His head slammed back against the bed, back arching as she moaned, freeing herself from her inhibitions as one of her hands found his, as her fingers threaded themselves with his longer ones.  The other hand she directed to one of her breasts, watched him gaze up at her, open mouthed, as she rode him slowly, the slick of her own arousal making it that much easier to push herself up until she nearly came off, then ease herself back down so that every trust was punctuated by a shared groan or gasp of their own.  His fingers played with the nipple of her breast before alternating to the next, pulling a whimper from her mouth and pulling him up into a sitting position with it.  His forehead pressed against hers, his lips crashing onto her own as she let him take the lead.  Who was she to complain when his thrusts met hers, his tongue explored every crevice and cranny in her mouth, and his fingers worked their magic on her skin as her breasts pressed hard against his shirt.  She gave a low whine, the fabric scratching her already sensitive nerves, and for half a second he stopped to survey her.  Her eyes were lidded, her hair a mess, and her lips swollen, and still she could see the reverence in his eyes.  

He picked up the pace once more, thrusting into her again and again, hands finding her hips to help balance her so he could take the brunt of the work and piston himself into her, a well oiled machine finely tuned to her every need.  His name left her lips so many times she lost count, while his own words were a littany of “Tasha” and an assortment of others whose origin she couldn’t place.  Not that she minded.  Funny though, when she thought of it, how the two of them were left with few words at the basest of moments between them.  She grinned at that as she came, the voice rising into a fevered cry as he followed her after, teeth sinking into her shoulder to silence himself.  Not that she wanted him to, if she was honest.  

Again, with the pair of them pressed so close together the fabric of his shirt irritated Nat’s skin, and she shifted uncomfortably against it.  He pulled away, considering her wishes without having to say a word.  With careful, not so sure hands, he moved her hands onto the bottom hem of his shirt.  Helped her lift it up and over his head, let her throw it to the side and trace her fingers feather-light over the wicked looking scars of his own.  She wondered at each one, seeing how they arced and circled and broke him up until he was little more than a cutting board or a knife sharpener.  She laid him back down once more, following him as he went, to bring her lips to every scar she could meet, kissing her way down them so that by the time she reached his navel and looked back up he was blinking furiously, his own gaze anywhere but her own.  

Oh.  Nat hadn’t thought about that.  She reached up to cup the side of his face and he turned into the embrace, the cold water of his tears coating her hands as he sobbed freely into her touch.  She laid herself down atop him, holding him tight as his body shook, his own hands wrapping around her like a vice as he let himself finally, and completely, go.  

 

The two emerged the next morning with furtive glances in one another’s direction as they moved to the kitchen.  Her hand gave one quick squeeze to his own before they separated.  This time, when Thor clapped his brother on the back and slid one of his hot pop-tarts towards him, the man didn’t shirk away.  If anything, Nat noticed as she smiled into her coffee, he relaxed into it.  

 


End file.
